


The Nine Muses

by Kaleidoscope_Carousel



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:25:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleidoscope_Carousel/pseuds/Kaleidoscope_Carousel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of nine ficlets (under 1000 words) about Nyssa and Sara and their developing relationship, based on the nine muses of Greek mythology. Each chapter title is the title of that particular story. These are not necessarily posted in chronological order, and I may move them around after the series is complete. Inspired by the fact that the actresses who play Sara and Nyssa are also a dancer and a singer, respectively. The series is now complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Erato

There is no internet in Nanda Parbat, no television, either. News travels by word of mouth, or not at all, and diversions are few and far between. This does not matter much to Sara at first. She is too exhausted at the end of the day to do anything but crawl into bed, muscles aching, and mind swirling with words and grammatical structures she can barely understand. 

As her body strengthens, and her mind adapts to understand and absorb all the information being thrown at her, she begins to grow restless. She starts to miss spending evenings curled up on the couch with Laurel, or chatting with her friends on AIM. There are only so many times she can run through her patterns in the limited confines of her room and meditation has never been Sara’s strong suit.

Despite the lack of technology, the one thing that the League does provide plenty of is paper. Sara is actually surprised because she thought a super secret association of assassins would write on parchment, or vellum, but (at least for the initiates) they are provided with booklets of everyday, lined notepaper. She knows she is supposed to be using it to practice her Arabic letters, or Chinese characters, and she does, but quite often Sara finds herself sitting down in the evening just to write.

She begins by writing journal entries, descriptions of her training, her tutoring, her days in what she jokingly calls “Assassin School” but soon she finds herself writing more about her thoughts and feelings. Before she realises it, she has begun writing poetry. It almost spills out of her pen and across the page by accident, the first time. She just found herself creating line breaks where she felt they ought to go. Writing calms her. It allows her to release whatever she is feeling inside without resorting to destroying a practice dummy; it allows her to focus.

More and more often, her writings revolve around Nyssa. 

Sara has written pages and pages of poetry about Nyssa. She has written about her eyes, her hair, her gracefulness, the way that her lips twitch upward when she is proud of Sara’s progress, and about how Sara felt when Nyssa finally truly smiled at her. Sara realises that slowly but surely, she has been falling in love with Nyssa. 

And all she has to offer are her words.


	2. Terpsichore

When Sara practises her patterns, it looks like she is dancing. She reminds Nyssa of the ballerinas her mother took her to see, once, when she was a very little girl in Russia. She remembers being spellbound by the effortless way the dancers moved across the stage, then leapt into the air as if gravity could not hold them. There is a grace and fluidity in Sara’s motions that does not belong in the same category of the movement in shadows necessary for the assassin’s trade. Sara’s motions belong on stage, like those ballerinas, held aloft under the lights for the world to see.

Nyssa knows that Sara must have been a dancer in her life Before, although she never talks about it. Has been forbidden to talk about it. In Nanda Parbat there is no before, only now. Sometimes, though, Nyssa still catches Sara pointing her toes when she kicks, instead of using the proper form, and at rest she still stands occasionally in first position, arms held loosely at her sides, fingers graceful. 

Once, she thought she saw Sara practising pirouettes before one of her combat lessons, although as soon as she became aware of another presence, she immediately assumed her fighting stance.

Nyssa loves to watch Sara go through her patterns and joins her whenever she is not needed at her father’s side, or elsewhere doing work for the League. It was not necessary for her to become Sara’s personal combat instructor, although she is one of the best fighters in the League. She simply enjoys watching Sara move. 

When they run through the patterns in tandem, moving as one through strikes, blocks, pivots, kicks, and punches; when they look not like two people, but reflections of each other in perfect symmetry, light and dark, black and gold, Nyssa likes to imagine that they are dancing together. 

She secretly thanks Sara, for teaching her how to dance.


	3. Thalia

Sara has been in Nanda Parbat five months, two weeks, and three days before Nyssa hears her laugh for the first time. It’s not even a real laugh, just a sort of soft giggle, which is extinguished almost as soon as it is released into the air. But Nyssa knows she would do almost anything to hear Sara laugh again.

It does not take long. A few days later, Sara comes to Nyssa’s chambers to deliver fresh sheets and towels. Like all initiates she is assigned basic duties for the League, to learn humility and obedience. Nyssa looks up when Sara enters, and despite all her training, cannot help but betray herself with a quick upturn of her lips. Sara is dressed in the loose fitting uniform of assassins in training, while Nyssa is in her full formal garb after a meeting with her father and the heads of the League. 

“Just put those on the chair, please, Sara. Thank you.” Sara does, and makes a small bow before she lifts her head and takes in the sight of Nyssa, sitting cross-legged on her bed in full leather armour, casually working on a scarf. Nyssa can tell that Sara is fighting for control but she does not have the years of schooling her emotions that Nyssa does, and first a smile, then a giggle emerge.

“What is so amusing, pray tell?” Nyssa makes sure to keep her voice gentle, tone teasing. Sara swallows hard, but Nyssa gives her what she hopes is an encouraging look.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s kind of funny. You’re all dressed up like you’re about to go on a mission, but you’re, well, you’re knitting! My grandmother knits!” Nyssa lifts an eyebrow.

“Knit one, purl two, stab one?” She asks wryly. Sara chuckles.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s just kind of a bizarre image.”

“I am not all business all the time, little bird.” Nyssa says, patting the bed, indicating for Sara to sit. “I find this sort of activity quite relaxing, to be honest. It is almost a type of meditation for me. When I was young and just learning, I could not sit still and concentrate. My teachers found that when my hands were kept busy, I was able to focus my mind. But I am glad it amuses you. You have such a beautiful laugh.” Sara ducks her head, but Nyssa catches her chin by a finger and lifts her face up. “Do not be ashamed. Beauty can be found in even the darkest places.” Sara turns away, picks up the needles that Nyssa has let fall to the bed.

“Could you teach me?” She asks.

“Certainly.” Nyssa answers. The sit together and work until Sara successfully casts on and knits a few rows of stitches. She smiles with delight at the slightly crooked rows. Nyssa smiles, too. “Next week shall I teach you how to juggle?” She says. Sara throws back her head and laughs, a real delighted laugh. 

“You’re on.”


	4. Calliope

Sara doesn’t remember much from her first few days in Nanda Parbat. She barely even remembers how she got off the island. She’d lain down, waiting for death to take her, when a shadow fell across her face. She’d opened her eyes to see a woman’s face staring down at her, and the sun creating a halo around her dark, dark hair. She vaguely remembers thinking that her angel had come to take her away. After that, Sara had lost consciousness.

The first time she woke, she was on a ship, and the same woman she’d seen on the beach was sitting on a chair next to her bed, reading aloud in a strange language from a large, leather-bound book. When the woman noticed that Sara’s eyes were open, she called out something in that same strange language, and a young man came into the room carrying a glass of water, and a bowl of clear broth. He sat on the edge of the bed and fed Sara spoonfuls of the broth until she passed out once again.

She spent the journey slipping in and out of consciousness. Every time she opened her eyes, the woman was sitting with her, reading in her clear strong voice. Sometimes she stopped when she noticed Sara’s eyes open, to call for another bowl of broth, sometimes she glanced up only to continue reading as Sara’s eyes fluttered and she fell asleep once again.

When she finally awoke fully, she was lying in bed in a strange room. It was very bare, just the bed, a dresser, a desk, and a pitcher of water with a glass on the nightstand. Sara was a little disappointed that the woman, who had been her constant companion on the ship, was not in the chair by her bed. Sara pushed herself up to sitting position, and as she did the door opened and the woman walked in, another book tucked under her arm. 

“I am glad to see you are awake,” she said, in lightly accented English, not the strange language (Arabic maybe?) that Sara had heard her reading in. “You have been asleep for many days, and you must be confused. Just know you are safe here, and we will take care of you.”

“Where am I?” Sara asked. Her voice felt hoarse from disuse.

“In my father’s compound in Nanda Parbat. I am Nyssa, daughter of Ra’s al Ghul. And you are?”

“Sara. My name is Sara.”

“Welcome Sara, welcome back to the living.”

A year later, and Sara stands in Nyssa’s room, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books on Nyssa’s shelf. _Shanahmeh, Ramayana, The Epic of Gilgamesh, The Iliad, The Odyssey, Taghribat Banil Hilal_. Some titles she does not recognise, although she can read them now, but the books themselves are familiar.

“These are what you read to me, while I was recovering,” she says, pulling _The Odyssey_ off the shelf and turning to Nyssa, who was lounging on the bed in a tank top and a flowing black skirt. “What made you do that?” Nyssa sits up, her dark hair trailing over bare shoulders.

“I had heard that speaking to someone in a coma can help the healing process. These are also all stories of great journeys, incredible feats, or great battles won. I thought hearing them might help give you courage, might help guide you home.” Sara cradles the book gently and walks over to join Nyssa on the bed. She curls up beside her, and rests her head on Nyssa’s chest so she can hear her steady heartbeat.

“Read to me?” she asks. Nyssa gathers Sara into her arms. 

“For you, I would do anything.”


	5. Urania

It’s late, and Sara has just finished her meditation when the knock comes on her door. Stretching, she stands and walks over, opening it to reveal Nyssa, dressed in her warmest clothes, standing outside. She’s wearing the little half-smile that Sara finds bizarrely adorable, and has some sort of pack slung over her shoulder. 

“Come quickly,” she says “get dressed.” Sara does as she’s told, pulling on the warm furs she has been given by the League. Winter is cold in Nanda Parbat. She has to jog to catch up to Nyssa, who has already started off down the hall. She wants to ask where they are going, but has learned here that questions are not always well received. Obedience to orders is. It’s as if Nyssa can tell what she’s thinking though, because she turns back to look at Sara and smiles that little half-smile again. “You shall see,” is all she says.

Sara pulls her coat closer around herself as they walk through the gates, and out into the night. It’s very dark, but Nyssa has brought a flashlight, and she illuminates the narrow track ahead, winding through the snow. Every so often she looks up, and increases the pace a little bit. Sara is thankful for a year’s training. Old Sara would never have been able to keep up with the long-legged stride of the woman in front of her.

The track Nyssa chose leads them to a set of narrow steps carved into the side of the mountain. The two women climb and climb until at last Nyssa stops at a cave cut back into the stone face of the cliff, with a ledge that reaches out over the dark valley below. Sara can see the distant lights of Nanda Parbat glistening against the snow. The night is incredibly clear, and the cold is biting, but Nyssa has taking the pack off her shoulder to reveal a rolled up sleeping bag, wrapped around a thermos, a telescope, and a tripod. She lays the sleeping bag down on the dry floor of the cave, and sets up the telescope on the ledge with practiced movements. 

She looks up once more at the sky, and grabs Sara’s wrist. “Look,” she says pointing above their heads. At first Sara can’t tell what has Nyssa so excited, but then she sees it: a brilliant streak of white light flashing across the sky. Soon she sees another, and then another. Nyssa is smiling now, a rare happy smile, as she bends down to look through the telescope. She lets go of Sara’s wrist to adjust the sightlines, and the spot where she had held on feels very cold to Sara without her mitten there. “Come here, little bird, and look at this.” Sara does, and Nyssa moves over so that Sara can have her turn. She gasps when she looks through the lens. She’d never seen so many stars at home, even when her dad took the family camping when she was eight. Here there are more of them than she could have ever imagined. Her smile gets brighter every time a new meteor passes overhead.

“It’s called the Geminid shower,” Nyssa tells her when she can finally pull herself away from the telescope. “Every year they come from the direction of Gemini, look, that constellation over there.” Nyssa points, and draws the shape of the twins against the starry backdrop. Sara looks, but her eyes keep getting drawn back to Nyssa’s face. 

She’s never seen her look so beautiful, with her hair tangling in the gentle breeze, as dark as the sky overhead, and colour spotting her cheeks bright with the cold. Her eyes are shining and Sara could swear she sees the reflection of the constellations in them. She can’t help herself and she draws closer to Nyssa, brushing a strand of her black hair away where it was caught on her mouth. Sara is suddenly, fiercely, jealous of that strand of Nyssa’s hair.

“Sara, what. . .” Nyssa whispers, but doesn’t finish as Sara stands on tiptoe so she can gently press their lips together. 

“Shh,” Sara whispers against Nyssa’s mouth. “ _Habibti_ , I won’t be brave enough to do this if you speak.” Nyssa stays silent and Sara presses their lips together again. Nyssa opens her mouth under Sara’s, and bends her head so that Sara can stand flat footed again in the snow. Her mouth is so warm compared to the freezing air, and it sends shivers through Sara’s whole body. She feels as if she has the fire of the shooting stars running through her blood. Nyssa pulls her closer, anchoring her with her arms. She feels something wet on her cheek, and thinks for a moment it has started snowing, until she breaks the kiss and realises there are tears running down Nyssa’s face. Sara wipes away the drops with the thumb of her mitt, and Nyssa buries her face in Sara’s hair.

“ _Lyubimaya_ , Sara,” Nyssa murmurs, “ _Ya lyublu tebya, ochen lyublu tebya._ ” Sara just holds on to Nyssa, like she’s still in the wreck and Nyssa is her life saver. Nyssa clings just as hard to Sara, like she’s afraid if she lets go Sara will slip away. They stay like that until the cold becomes too much, and then crawl into the sleeping bag together. They lie curled into each other as the tea grows cold in the thermos, and the shooting stars begin to fade into the light of day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nyssa's words translate to (roughly, because I haven't studied Russian in about two years and I've forgotten almost everything including declensions, dammit) "Beloved, Sara" "I love you, love you very much" and in Russian look like this любимая Sara. . . я люблю теья, оцень люблю теья. If anyone reading this has better Russian than I, please feel free to correct me. I want to get it right. 
> 
> _Habibti_ ,حبيبتي, the word Sara uses, is an Arabic word meaning dear one, or beloved. It's not always used in a romantic context, but in this case it is. Again, if I've used it incorrectly, or anything please correct me.


	6. Polyhymnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated Teen for suggestive content. Nothing explicit.

Nyssa has never been very spiritual. She doesn’t believe in any sort of all powerful being that can grant sinners their absolution. Even if she did, she knows she would not be worthy of it anyway. She kills for a living, and that is the long and short of it. There is nothing of religion in her life now, not the orthodox Christianity of her mother, nor the Islamic faith of many of her father’s people. She knows that the holy books are just allegory and metaphor. Nyssa believes in her cause, in her father, and in her own abilities. Concrete things, reliable things. 

But Nyssa absolutely worships Sara. 

Every night since their relationship found its new balance, no longer that of mentor and protégée, but now that of lovers, she writes hymns with her hands and mouth all over Sara’s body. She sings her praises with each kiss, pays obeisance each time Sara allows her the honour of undressing her and guiding her back towards the bed they share. 

Nyssa believes that she now understands the stories of the martyrs her mother read to her Sunday evenings after church. She always knew that she would die for her cause, without hesitation, but that was out of a sense of duty. Now she knows what it would be like to die for her passion, for her love. To be shot through with arrows, like Saint Sebastian, or die on the wheel like Saint Catherine, burned in the fire for her faith like Saint Joan. Her faith is Sara, and for Sara she would surely die. 

She does not have the words to explain it, neither in Russian, Arabic, Mandarin, nor English. Even if she knew what to say she doubts her ability to actually say it out loud. So she uses her body to praise Sara. She uses her kisses as offerings, her breaths and moans as hymns and prayers, her touch as worship. 

In daylight, things go on mainly as they always have but her nights, her nights are sacred. 

This room is Nyssa’s church, and Sara is her goddess.


	7. Clio

Sara traces Nyssa’s past by the scars on her skin. Each scar tells a story, and Sara wants to learn them all. She knows it’s forbidden, she knows that history is never personal in this place, it is only to be learned from, and then left in the past, but slowly and surely she manages to draw it out of Nyssa, touch by touch.

Her favourites are the small, faded scars, the ones almost hidden beneath newer and more jagged wounds. Those scars are the last precious reminders of a Nyssa that Sara never knew, but one that she loves just as fiercely as the woman that sits cross legged next to her on the bed. Those scars are happier ones, if scars can ever be happy things. She has seen the lines left in Nyssa’s flesh by swords and spears, arrows and bullets. She has a few of her own, now, as well. But those hold no interest to her, except as a reminder of the danger she lives, the danger they both face on a regular basis. As if she could ever forget such a fact, when every time Nyssa leaves, Sara is afraid she will never come back.

But Nyssa is here right now, and she’s not leaving yet, not for a little while. They have at least tonight. Sara runs the pad of her thumb over a faint white line on the tip of Nyssa’s middle finger on her left hand. “Peeling potatoes,” Nyssa says, “I was eight, and I wanted to help my mother in the kitchen.” Sara smiles at the image of a tiny, serious Nyssa trying to be grown up and help with dinner. She dips her head, and places a kiss on that spot.

Next, Sara traces her hand over the half inch of raised skin on Nyssa’s right knee. “I was six, running a race with some of the other children in neighbourhood. I slipped and cut my knee open on a rock. I kept picking at the scab, so it would not heal properly.” Sara already knows the stories behind the next few scars she touches: a scratch on Nyssa’s leg from a neighbour’s ill-tempered cat, a burn on her arm from reaching over a steaming kettle. Each time she caresses the scar, and then presses her lips against it before moving on.

She stops again and brushes Nyssa’s hair out of her face, revealing a tiny mark just above her eyebrow. “I ran into the corner of a table when I was five. I never walked anywhere if I could run.” Nyssa’s eyes flutter shut as Sara brings their faces together to brush her lips across the scar. Nyssa’s eyes open again as Sara leans back, but she notices that her pupils are dilated, making her already dark eyes look almost black. “And this one,” Nyssa says, pointing to a very faint line, just below her bottom lip, “is from when I fell out of a tree and bit through my lip. I was twelve.” She’s quirking her mouth to the side, Sara recognises the dare when she sees it. Smirking right back she grabs Nyssa’s face in her hands, and stares straight into her eyes before bringing their mouths together. Nyssa’s arms wrap around Sara, and she falls back, bringing Sara down on top of her. 

As Nyssa deepens the kiss, threading her fingers through Sara’s hair, all thoughts of the past fly out of Sara’s head. Right now, she’s perfectly content being in the present.


	8. Euterpe

Sara has always loved the sound of Nyssa’s voice. She loves the way she forms the syllables of English with a lilting accent, loves the way she so patiently corrects Sara’s pronunciation in Arabic, or in her native Russian. Having Nyssa read to her in the days of her convalescence made being bed ridden bearable until she was strong enough to begin her training. What Sara didn’t realise, though, is that as beautiful as her speaking voice is, Nyssa’s singing is even better.

She first overheard Nyssa sing by accident. She’d taken to running the city walls in her free time to bring herself back into fighting shape after a training mishap led to a badly sprained ankle and prescribed rest for a few weeks. The notes had come cascading over the walls with the wind and Sara had stopped in her tracks, wondering where the incredible voice was coming from. She looked over the parapet, to see a lone figure climbing one of the paths from the village in the foothills. Even if she had not seen the unmistakeable black hair blowing in the breeze, she would have known it was Nyssa from the way she carried herself. Sara would have known Nyssa anywhere. 

She couldn’t make out the words from this distance, just the rise and fall of Nyssa’s voice in the emptiness of the evening. It almost felt intrusive, listening in to the emotion in Nyssa’s voice, and so Sara forced herself to turn back from the outside, and continue on her run.

She has heard Nyssa singing countless times since then. She sings when she is happy, and also when she is sad, she hums under her breath in quiet moments, and when she is working out a problem in her head. Sara discovers that Nyssa sings when the feeling is too much to hide anymore. It is something that Sara adores about her. She does not look at Nyssa’s face to know what she is thinking, she listens to her voice.

Now, curled together on Sara’s narrow bed, the candles burning low, and her limbs feeling soft and heavy from the wine Nyssa brought to celebrate Sara’s successful initiation into the League, she whispers into Nyssa’s hair, “ _Habibti_ , please, sing to me?” Nyssa shifts to sitting, and Sara’s head slips onto her lap. There’s a strand of Nyssa’s hair that has come loose over her shoulder, and she bats at it, watching it swing. Like a cat, she thinks, giggling, not a canary. 

“Sing to you _Altaïr al-Asfar_? Can the songbird not sing for herself?” Nyssa’s voice is light, and Sara knows she is amused from the way her words sound like a laugh.

“Please, Nyssa?” She pouts, and bats her eyelashes, clasping her hands underneath her chin. Nyssa sighs, and gently taps a finger against Sara’s nose. 

“Stop that,” she says, and Sara does, grin replacing the pout.

“So? Will you sing to me? Please?” 

“What would you have me sing?”

“I don’t know. Something, anything. You choose.” Nyssa closes her eyes for a moment and Sara does the same, letting herself relax into the stillness and the feeling of Nyssa running her hand through her hair. She turns her head sideways, and pillows into Nyssa’s lap to let her have a better angle. She makes a little humming sound in the back of her throat, and Nyssa laughs. Then, she takes a deep breath and begins her song.

The notes rise and fall and Sara can feel Nyssa swaying slightly as she sings, tapping out the rhythm against her knee with the hand that is not currently tangled in Sara’s hair. She doesn’t know if it’s the wine, or the song, or both but she feels a warmth suffuse her. For the first time in over two years, she feels. . . safe. 

As the last note of the song evaporates into the air, Nyssa’s hand drops from Sara’s hair, and Sara sits up to look at Nyssa. “That was beautiful,” she says, “What’s it called?” Nyssa smiles.

“ _Ptashechka,_ ” she answers, “Little Bird.” 

“Little Bird,” Sara echoes, “like what you call me.”

“Yes, _habibti_ , like you.” Sara reaches for Nyssa’s hands, tangles their fingers together.

“Nyssa,” she swallows hard, but can’t manage to get the words out. Her stomach is reeling, and she feels like her whole body is flushed. “Nyssa,” she tries again, and Nyssa places a hand on her cheek, stroking with her thumb. 

“Yes, Sara, what is it?” Sara covers Nyssa’s hand with her own and presses their foreheads together. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath in and out to calm herself, and finally manages to form the words,

“I love you.” She opens her eyes again after a beat. Nyssa’s eyes glisten, and her beautiful, golden voice shakes when she answers Sara back.

“I love you, too, _Altaïr al-Asfar_ so very, very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Nyssa sings can be found [ here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=atvqhOjzZxw)


	9. Melpomene

When Nyssa looks at Sara for the first time, she sees Ophelia. She sees a drowning beauty with water in her lungs, and kelp in her hair, washed up on the beach. She wonders how such things are allowed to happen.

Later she laughs at herself for such a thought. She’s an assassin, she kills for a living, but she couldn’t let a tragedy play out like that on an island in the North China Sea. She decides to save a life, this time, instead of take one.

When Nyssa looks at Sara for the first time in Nanda Parbat, she sees the Lady of Shalott, locked in a tower away from the world, but without even a mirror to see what is going on outside without her. Sara, once recovered, buries herself in her studies, instead of a tapestry.

Nyssa decides that she will be Sara’s mirror. She will bring her stories of the outside world, she will be her companion. Perhaps, Nyssa hopes, Sara will see in her eyes the knight she has been waiting for, instead of climbing into the boat, and leaving the tower behind.

When Nyssa looks at Sara after her first kill, she sees Lady Macbeth, frantically washing the blood off her hands. She scrubs and scrubs and scrubs, and won’t stop until Nyssa comes up behind her and takes those hands in her own. She turns Sara to face her and kisses each palm, and hopes that this small gesture might hold some absolution.

It becomes a ritual between the two. When either comes home after a mission, they wash each other’s hands, and then kiss the palms. If they can not forgive each other, then who can?

When Nyssa looks at Sara for the last time, in a warehouse in Starling City, she sees Desdemona, pleading for her life. It feels like the words tear her open, like she’s going to bleed to death right there on the concrete, but she manages to find the capability to release Sara. The relief in Sara’s eyes is salt in Nyssa’s ragged wounds. She refuses to write Sara’s tragedy. Instead, she walks away.


End file.
